


Square-up

by WrithingBeneathYou



Series: Ward of Konoha [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Konoha-ward!Madara, M/M, Warden!Gai, post-spar sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 07:31:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19352353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: After years of sparring, Maito Gai is still a challenge Madara hasn’t quite figured out how to overcome.





	Square-up

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt fill for the [2019 Naruto Rare Pair Bingo](https://naruto-rarepair-bingo.tumblr.com/) event taking place over on Tumblr. 
> 
> Board A, "meet cute."
> 
>  
> 
>  **In this AU, Madara survived the Fourth Shinobi War, but was felled in his battle against Gai.** After the war, he was brought back to Konoha as a ward of the village, much like Orochimaru. Gai, who had his damaged leg removed and replaced by one of Kankurō's prosthetic pieces, was assigned the task of being his warden (with constant check-ins by Kakashi). And that's about the long and short of it. Enjoy! XD

Madara tries to shift and wonders why his body is failing him. His muscles burn with the aftermath of a truly spectacular spar, but he should still be able to manage something as simple as repositioning his hips to lessen the ache in his groin. Thighs stretched wide, there’s nowhere for him to go. He can’t seem to find the leverage to push up from the solid earth under his cheek. If he can’t manage that, he doesn’t stand a chance of budging the wall of muscle at his back. 

He’s well and truly pinned. It should be alarming to be so summarily defeated. It’s not, though. After years of sparring, Maito Gai is still a challenge he hasn’t quite figured out how to overcome.

Shrouded in the curtain of his own hair, Madara spits out a leaf and takes a moment to piece together the disparate sensations of touch, sight, and sound. There’s the heat of a solid forearm against the nape of his neck, a sliver of a well-formed bicep bracketing him in, and the slamming pulse against his bare back, more like the beat of a war-hammer than anything human. 

It’s strange, but being made to straddle Gai’s folded legs—stomach pressed tight to even tighter thighs—isn’t too bad of a place to be. The shinobi of this village call Maito Gai a beast. They are right, though Madara suspects it’s not in the way they imagine. 

“I yield. Well fought,” he concedes, the words interspersed by a huff of laughter, “though I would expect nothing less from the strongest of all taijutsu users.” The pronouncement wins him an answering guffaw that vibrates right through Madara’s chest. 

“Likewise! Your showing was equally as splendid!” Gai replies, pressed up close enough for his enthusiasm to resonate. 

Madara smiles where no one can see it. For all the mistakes he’s made in his excessively long life, succumbing to the might of Konoha’s Red Beast in the Fourth Shinobi War has not shaped up to be one of them. If he had known that contentedness and peace could be found in a chakra suppressant seal and a larger-than-life retainer, he would have abandoned the Infinite Tsukuyomi long ago. 

Well, perhaps not, but he’s grown soft in the years he’s spent as Konoha’s prisoner and ward—his goals are no longer so lofty. Suddenly it seems his machinations are better suited to irritating Hatake and convincing Gai that all meals should involve the gentle burn of kimchi.  

Senju Tobirama would have been elated if he were alive to see Madara interred in this quiet domesticity. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. 

Madara snorts and shakes his head with what little range of motion he has. 

When the staunch weight against his neck doesn’t lift, he grunts and pointedly wriggles in place. If anything, Gai presses down even harder, thighs bunching with what feels like tenuous restraint. 

“I said I yield, Beast,” Madara repeats, wheezing as he exhales and fights to regain that lost lungful. When his words fall on deaf ears, he adducts his legs as tightly as he can and forcibly slides his body back up the incline of Gai’s lap. 

It takes a moment to register the hardness he backs into and the deep groan that friction elicits.

Madara freezes. Once realization settles in, his eyes steadily widen.  

“Are you hard?”

“Ah, my apologies,” Gai blurts out, a wavering smile evident in his voice. “The hot blood of youth rising up in battle is a wonderful, natural sign of virility. However, it’s not my intention to make you uncomfortable, my friend.” Finally, his substantial bulk starts to pull away, but Madara isn’t having it.

“Uncomfortable? Why would that make me uncomfortable?” he asks, genuinely curious. “Every shinobi worth their salt has gotten off on one battlefield or another. And you’re more worthy than most, aren’t you?” 

He grinds down against the space between Gai’s legs to lend credence to his words. 

There’s hesitation in the large hand that settles on his waist, fingers brushing against the crease of his thigh.

“I’m not sure I—” Gai begins, only to be cut off.

“I think we should continue this spar,” Madara clarifies, voice dropping to the lower end of his register. His neck strains as he turns to watch Gai’s expression shift out of the corner of his eye. 

He’s not a conventionally handsome man, not like the Senju brothers, but his body is a shrine and his unerring positivity has a draw all of its own. Madara would be lying if he said he hasn’t stroked himself to imaginings of what’s underneath that jumpsuit on nights Hatake saw fit to let him sleep unsupervised. Well, and a few nights when he hadn’t.

He grins hugely. “Are you not a man of action? A noble beast? Surely the best way to imbue me with this ‘will of fire’ you all go on about is to fill me with it.”

Gai throws his head back and laughs loudly. The small pocket of wildlife that was brave enough to linger during their sparring takes off into the underbrush. 

“Yosh! You’re right! You are a worthy opponent. It would be an honor to assist the power of youth to explode within you.”

Madara can’t help it, he sniggers, letting his gaiety build up to an ugly, shoulder-shaking guffaw. Oh, that was bad. That was so bad. That was pilfered Icha Icha first edition bad.

He hasn’t laughed like this is decades and when Gai joins in for no reason, tears begin to roll down his face. There’s something so innocent and endearing about the man, even though Madara knows full well that Maito has suffered and houses the same darkness as they all do. 

They’re such polar opposites on the spectrum of coping mechanisms, and none of them healthy. 

This spark of joy, though—this is one of the nicer ones. 

“Then show me what it truly means to yield, Maito Gai,” Madara commands once he regains his breath. “Guide me along Ōtsutsuki Ashura’s path to peace.”

Confident hands smooth out the wrinkles in his pants and hook beneath the bulge of muscle of his Apollo’s belt, pulling his hips back flush against Gai’s stomach. The clothing between them does little to mask the solidity of his erection, as larger-than-life as the rest of him. 

“Are you certain that this is something you want?” Gai asks, sobering quickly. 

While Madara appreciates the novelty of affirmed consent, it’s really not necessary. He shakes the bangs out of his face just so Gai can see the way he rolls his eyes. 

“I’m no blushing virgin. Yes. Get on with it,” he says in no uncertain terms. 

“Ah.” Gai nods in acknowledgement. “Very well. I will strive to be your equal in love as well as battle, Uchiha Madara. I will conquer this challenge and plant the seed of love in your heart and the will of fire in your soul,” he announces, voice lacking the cheery lilt that Madara is so used to. It’s odd to hear this level of gravity coming from the man who smiled through having his leg removed—who was clearing the field with his booming mirth just a moment ago. 

When he looks back again, Gai’s brow is pinched in concentration, the same expression as when they first fought so long ago. 

A muscular arm slips beneath him to brace his chest—callous-rough hand pillowing his face from the dirt—and Madara can’t think of anything beyond the smell of tempura. Chapped lips plant lopsided kisses against his temple, his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. 

Those lips will be the death of him, he soon finds. 

He’s fucked and been fucked—never anything lasting and rarely ever kind—but this isn’t something he’s prepared for at all. Gai is solicitous in ways no other partner has been, tender strokes and soft kisses against the back of his neck that speak of long-time lovers. It’s all the more heady knowing that every ounce of that undue kindness girds steel at his core. 

He had expected that sharp-edged aggression of their spar to bleed over, to be thrown to the ground and ravaged by Gai’s massive cock as thoroughly as he was trounced by his fists. But this—maybe this is something worth staying for too.

He drags his teeth along his lower lip and inhales deeply, breathing in the smell of dirt, blood, sweat, and musk—all of the things that define them.

“Please tell me if anything I do is not to your liking,” Gai says, his words a throaty rumble against Madara’s ear.

“I’ll be sure to let you know if you ever actually get around to doing something,” Madara snips back, though there’s no teeth to it. 

Gai’s amusement is a soft exhale between them. Bolstered by the challenge, he brings his teeth into play, nothing painful, only the suggestion of something more visceral. He maps Madara’s throat and chest with palms and nails alike, paying particular attention to what draws out a gasp and what makes him squirm.  

Madara jolts when those intrepid fingers pinch and pluck at his nipples, then teasingly brush the tender skin between his ribs. The bright burn has his hips rolling down to grind against Gai’s powerful thighs. 

“Ah, harder. Make it hurt,” he groans. 

Despite the order, Gai’s fond explorations never falter. 

“No, my friend, the battlefield of love is a gentle one,” he chides as he drags two fingers along Madara’s lips, grunting in approval when he sucks them down. The distraction works well. Gai shifts them both upright and uses the advantage of their position to garner some friction—rutting against Madara’s buttocks.

Rough fingers drag across the cleft of Madara’s pectorals, down the midline of his abdominals, and all the way to cup the fullness of an erection too hard to have stemmed from a few soft touches alone.

“It would seem I was not the only one taken by the passions of our energetic clash.”

Madara inhales sharply through his nose, then sucks hard in answer and cleans off the lingering taste of grass with his tongue. His cock started filling after the first solid hit, to be honest. As much as he revels in the clash of power and the graceful exchanges between them, sparring stopped being solely about exercise a while ago.

He eases his head back against Gai’s broad shoulder as he looks up to the sky. He’s not sure if it’s the confident hand easing beneath his pants to fist his cock or the brilliance of the mid-morning sun that makes him see spots. Regardless, he lets his eyes fall shut and revels in the simplicity of giving up control. 

His thighs quake on a particularly clever down-stroke. 

Gai is impeccable at giving pleasure without allowing him anywhere near release. Every touch is measured, every stroke divine. It’s never enough and Madara trembles on the knife edge of desire and frustration. 

With one more calculated swipe of his thumb through the moisture gathering at Madara’s tip, Gai reclaims his hand. Madara squirms in protest as the fingers slide out of his mouth, then stills at the tell-tale sound of a zipper. There’s some shifting, but Gai soon embraces him again, this time accompanied by the added heat of skin against skin. 

Madara wishes he could see all of that olive complexion revealed to him, lashed through with the scars of their first, glorious dance. His name is carved in Gai’s body—it’s in the pull of keloids where his bodysuit doesn’t cover, the slight asymmetry of his gait as he bears the phantom pain in his right leg. 

Madara did that. 

Kankurō may have given Gai back his mobility in the form of a prosthesis, but Madara is still with him in the press of every other stride. A lingering claim.

He wonders how Gai would groan at the feel of teeth and tongue on his residual limb.

But, there will be time for satiating his curiosity later. For now, he focuses on straightening his legs to assist Gai in removing his pants. Maybe the man can give him a limp of his own.

“Ah,” Gai breathes out as he urges Madara back into the grapple position they were in before—face and shoulders on the ground, and body laid prone along the slope of Gai’s bent legs. It’s no hardship to flop back down and present himself like this. Gai’s guttural groan is only added incentive to spread his thighs wide and arch his lower back to add to the visual.

“You are so very beautiful,” Gai chokes out in reverence. He runs his hands down the rope-like scars on Madara’s back and takes his buttocks in-hand, squeezing and spreading them fully.  “Truly, a prime example of vigor and virility.”

Madara grins. Being a shinobi, he has no modesty to speak of and sex is nothing new, but there’s something novel about being at the mercy of such open, honest adoration. “Cute. But, you’re losing my interest,” he teases.

Gai chuckles, the sound deep and pure, and finally sees fit to let go and lift the heavy weight of his gaze. 

“Then I will have to try harder to keep it.”

There’s no pop of a cap or the metallic swish of a flask, so it comes as a surprise when Gai’s hands return to his shoulders slick with honing oil. 

“What are you—” Madara begins, only to have the words go awry and devolve into a hiss of satisfaction. Gai—this great, mountainous, fool of a man—is taking the time to massage the tension from his shoulders just as deftly as anyone trained to the craft. Despite his protests, there’s no relenting until every cord of stress along the curve of his spine gives under his patient ministrations.

And somehow, what amounts as foreplay in the midst of things makes Madara even  _ harder _ .

The fabric of Gai’s body suit bunches under his stomach, too sodden to soak up any more sweat. It gives a sweet, wet drag against his neglected cock.

It’s distracting enough that he jerks at the first slick sweep along the cleft of his ass. Then all of that delicious dedication to taking him apart presses bluntly at his hole, and the massage makes a great deal of sense. Even this languid relaxation fails to take away the first burn of too-large fingers. 

Madara groans and starts to breathe more laboriously than he had during the spar, each lungful of air harsh and grating in a throat gone raw. There’s none of Gai’s rampant idiocy in this, simply the smooth, confident glide of his fingers and the easy satisfaction of his murmured praise. The stretching of his body is so artfully done that he doesn’t even realize the addition of another finger, and another after that. 

There’s no pain, no strange, alien sense of invasion like in his prior trysts, only a satisfying fullness. 

Madara reaches back and anchors one hand on the back of Gai’s neck, and the other on the laminated socket of his prosthesis. He’s rewarded with another sloppy, over the shoulder kiss and the murmured gift of his own name.  

“More,” he commands.

“Not yet,” Gai promptly rebuffs, taking the time to add a twist to his wrist as he leisurely sinks in to the largest of his knuckles and pulls back out. As big as those fingers are, he skillfully manages to stroke everywhere  _ but _ Madara’s prostate.

Maddening tease. 

Uchiha Madara—Ghost of the Uchiha, Savior of this World, and Second Six Paths—is going to die at the hands of a man with an entirely too-sunny disposition and a dick like an over-sized gunbai handle, if they even make it that far. 

There are worse ways to go, he imagines. 

Gai hums deep in his chest and drags a trail of nomadic kisses back along Madara’s spine as he straightens. Madara can feel his gaze heavy on the place they connect, can feel the slight tremor in his legs. 

“I think you’re ready now,” Gai says, voice thick with awe.

Madara manages to dig his toes into the leaf litter and spread his legs even wider. He’ll be walking bow-legged when the endorphins wear off, he knows. That future is a distant thing, though. 

“I was ready an hour ago,” he huffs in offense. The desperate grind of his hips on Gai’s lap and the color high on his cheeks belie the acerbity of his claim. Gai is apparently well aware of his true feelings if the gentle spank he receives is any indication. 

“The spirit does not always correctly interpret what the body needs.” 

And if that isn’t some wisdom from the thrice-damned Sage right there. 

Madara instinctively tries to follow Gai’s fingers back, but pressure on the small of his back keeps him in place. Thankfully, their absence is soon replaced with the promise of something much more. It’s hard to feel the spongy cockhead dragging across his hole, or anything really over the conflagration that has taken up root in his neglected groin. His heart slams out a rabbit-fast tempo in his ears. Then, there’s pressure, and hands, and stuttered acclaims that meet with a steady pull.

Madara keens—a soulful, broken thing. Dirt pushes under his fingernails as he digs in to weather the too-good stretch. Luckily, Gai interprets his instinctive struggle as the desirous cue it is, and never relents in sinking into the space he had so diligently made for himself. 

It’s not until his buttocks press against wiry curls that Madara can manage to catch a breath. This is nothing like he’s had before. Every nerve is on fire from the build-up. He wants little more than to be taken apart and reassembled according to whatever Gai envisions he can be. And isn’t that a change.

Maybe there’s something to be said for the love-making he used to deny Hashirama so vehemently. 

Maybe he was wrong in more ways than one.

Gai spreads his legs, slides his knees back, and lifts up to gain a bit of leverage. Madara braces his elbows against the ground and is rewarded by another freely given flood of affection. 

Each controlled, methodical kiss drowns out the pained stretch, adds sweetness to the ache. There’s something odd building in Madara’s chest and stomach, something he can’t put a name to. It feels like lust but tastes like forgiveness. 

And once again, Gai’s hands slide across his bare chest, nails raking through the sheen of sweat, and all higher level thought leaves him. He doesn’t realize he’s laughing until he feels the echo of it rumbling against his back, the fullness in him as his stomach clenches and bears down. 

“Maito,” he tries to choke out, but the word lodges somewhere in his throat and ends up as a breathless moan. He grinds back into the vice of Gai’s hips just to feel his buttocks flatten as he takes the hard line of his partner’s enthusiasm that much deeper. He hangs his head and touches his brow to the ground as he tries again. 

“Gai.” It’s stronger this time, but still nowhere near the voice he used to command battlefields. 

“Yes, my friend?” Gai asks, sounding for all the world like he’s out for a light jog and not breaking Madara in half and stuffing him full in the middle of a training field for the world to see. He shifts his grip and rolls his hips forward, strong and slow. 

Madara traps another moan behind clenched teeth. 

“I—I know you can dance better than this,” he finally manages, turning enough to look up at Gai through the part in his hair. The broad smile Gai rewards him with lights up his face, but never once does his pace change. 

“I can,” he says simply, “but I’m going to need to work you up to that.”

If anyone else had said those words, Madara would have called them seven kinds of braggart and blown a katon jutsu right in their lying face. This man is different, he knows. Gai does not exaggerate his own prowess and that fact has him licking his lips in anticipation of things to come. 

Gai’s touch slides up his sides and down over his biceps to plant solid fists into the dirt. It’s a good thing too, because the next roll of hips pushes Madara’s shoulders into Gai’s corded forearms. They’re the only thing keeping him from face-planting and being inched across the training field with each infuriatingly mindful thrust. 

“Fuck,” Madara barks, rocking with the motion.

Gai resettles and changes his angle. “Is this okay?”

Exhaling sharply, Madara headbutts his chin. “You know it is.”

Another pistoning of hips, another exploratory drag within him, and Madara’s breath hitches. 

“There. Just like that,” he pants, eyelids fluttering. He swallows repeatedly, overwhelmed by Gai’s temperance and surety.  

“I knew from the first moment you challenged me that you would be glorious,” he admits without shame. “Your skill, your confidence, your drive—I’ve wanted you for a very long time, Maito Gai.”

Gai’s next thrust is sharper and somehow even deeper than the one before. “I have been in your heart for so long?” 

“Sure,” Madara snorts. 

Gai grunts and drives into him, steadily increasing the power and haste of his hips. 

It takes the last of Madara’s strength for him to steady himself on elbows and knees. He opens his eyes to watch the world rock upside down. His thighs frame the way his leaking cock bobs when they come together with a loud, wet slap. The familiar pressure of a looming orgasm builds faster now, as crisp and brilliant as the fall leaves crumbling in his fists. 

“In a field of thousands, you alone could face me. You alone could bring me down. I was infatuated the moment we locked eyes. Ah,” Madara yelps at a particularly strong brush of his prostate. “Sage. When I’m alone, I pretend to feel the heat of your gates on my dick.”

His true, but cleverly-crafted admissions have the desired effect. Gai moans and his chakra flickers desperately. He rears up, letting Madara’s elbows sink into the depressions his fists left behind, and grabs hold of his hips instead. He anchors his fingers into the curve of Madara’s hip hard enough that he can feel his skin giving way to bruises under the pressure. 

There will be blooms of purple there come morning, but Madara will wear them proudly. He’ll don the yukata Hatake hates most, the silky one that gapes wide all the way past his navel, and marinate in that knowing glare.

He bites his lip to keep his delight at bay. But then, Gai begins to slam into him in earnest and it’s all he can do to keep from shattering. Madara’s mouth hangs open in a silent scream, eyes wide as the burn of the Sharingan batters against the insurmountable walls of the chakra suppression seal tattooed around his neck.

Gai’s name falls from his lips unbidden, like a mantra, growing in strength until he can practically feel the man’s self-control melt away. His hair sweeps the area clean of all but dirt with the force of the recoil. Gai’s skin is blisteringly hot against his back and thighs, then it’s bracketing him from all sides again and Madara thinks he’s burning alive. An arm wraps around his chest, a substantial weight settles on his back, and the vice of a forge takes him in hand and jerks him in time with some sort of fantastical beat only Gai can hear. 

He feels as if he’s coming detached, floundering if not for Gai’s incredible strength anchoring him in reality. 

Near hyperventilating, Madara gives in to the oncoming crest of orgasm. It builds up, his loins heavy with anticipation, then tears through him stronger than any release he’s had before. He pours over Gai’s hand and waters the field with his come. The sound he makes is entirely wordless, a strangled roar of satisfaction set far back in his throat.

Trembling, Gai ruts into him another handful of times and stutters into stillness.

Madara arches into the pull, ready and open to take every possible centimeter as Gai grinds to completion. They spend a long moment catching their breath. Madara smiles as more kisses are peppered along his shoulders until, as one, they collapse sideways, boneless and satiated. Gai’s bicep makes for a fantastic, if sweaty, pillow and his broad chest rumbles with a contented hum. 

Perhaps the afterglow is worth staying for, too.

“You are truly gifted, Maito Gai,” Madara announces. “Thank you for honoring me with a dance. Though, I think I’ll need another to fully understand the Will of Fire. Possibly several more.”

Gai stops drawing meandering swirls on Madara’s hip in favor of gently cupping his face. He eases himself close enough to take Madara’s lips in a proper kiss this time, deep and soulful. 

“Next time, I’ll open the gates for you,” he murmurs with a glint in his eye. 

**Author's Note:**

> Now I want 150k of passive-aggressive shenanigans between Madara and Kakashi...


End file.
